Leopard and Native, 1956
A sudden attack in the heart of the jungle. The leopard’s roar, the terrified gaze of the man taken by surprise, the vivid green vegetation closing in around the struggling bodies. With Leopard and Native, Ligabue draws us into an imaginary Africa—remote, wild, constructed entirely through fantasy.
The scene is explosive and theatrical. The feline lunges violently at the fallen figure, gripping him with its claws, jaws wide open, sharp teeth proclaiming its predatory power. The native figure, sculpted in warm earth tones, is rendered with angular, forceful lines, almost as if he too were part of the surrounding nature.
Ligabue’s Africa is not based on direct experience, but on images from illustrated books, adventure films, and museum dioramas. Yet there is nothing naive here. The painter conveys the world’s primordial energy with a pictorial tension that pulses in every detail—in sharp leaves, broken trunks, and warm shadows enveloping the landscape.
The leopard, proud and muscular, is rendered with remarkable precision, not according to academic realism but as a creature deeply felt and inwardly experienced. Its meticulously dotted fur contrasts with the increasingly stylized background, as if dissolving into memory.
There is a tragic tension in this image, but also something deeper: a metaphor for an existence lived on the edge between instinct and danger, between nature’s beauty and its inexorable cruelty. Ligabue seems to recognize himself both in the victim and in the predator. And in this dual identification, he reveals himself—once again—authentic and vulnerable.